Life is Healthy

On Sunday I went to the park with my girlfriend and her parents and we played with a Frisbee. I thought it might have been a bit boring, or even embarrassing, but this was actually the most fun I have ever had with my clothes on (that involved my girlfriend's parents). Not that I have ever attempted to have any fun with my clothes off that involved my girlfriend's parents. Though her Mum has shown interest.

I am pleased to report that Frisbee technology has improved since I was a kid, and this one had a special rubber edge which meant that it didn't hurt your hand when you tried to catch it. I never liked that and generally went indoors and played with my ZX Spectrum at that point, pretending not to be crying.

But not only did I not want to go indoors this time, I was easily the best at it, which has never happened before in any group of people with whom I have been doing any kind of sporting activity. The fact that I was playing against two pensioners (one of whom is recovering from an operation) and a pregnant woman had no bearing on my victory and will be expunged from the record books.

I am walking in the park with my girlfriend, admiring the signs of spring and generally being happy that so many people are out enjoying themselves. Suddenly, a stray football heads towards us. A group of men shout and indicate that they would like me to kick it back to them. I really really want to kick it back – it is immensely satisfying to connect your foot with a football and give it a good hard thump.

However, they are very masculine looking men – a couple of them even have their shirts off, and it’s not that warm – and I don’t want to miskick it in front of them. It is also possible that my girlfriend may have inferred from past footballing anecdotes that I captained the England schoolboys team and that I have never corrected this misapprehension.

The truth is that I did play football for my school. My primary school. Whose team was selected entirely from the top class. Which contained 12 boys. I was the substitute. Who was often lucky to get a run out at all. It wasn’t even some kind of FA academy school that I went to either, where I was being kept on the bench by a young Alan Shearer.

The truth is that despite my enjoyment every time I kick a ball I am probably not that good at football. So, as the ball bounces towards me I am aware that there is a lot riding on this kick. I keep my eye on the ball, head over the ball and strike through the ball, like it said to on my Kevin Keegan poster.

It goes flying through the air, swerves, beats the keeper, top right corner: GOOOOOOOOOOAL!

My trainer, that is. The ball slices off at about 130°, narrowly missing a surprised woman walking an even more surprised dog. One of the bare-chested men sighs and runs to collect it.

I mutter something to my girlfriend about being used to playing in proper football boots, and hop off to collect my shoe.

I go for a walk in the park. My local park is very pretty – far more so than one would expect for the area. It’s also very well cared for, and its proximity was actually the deciding factor in buying my flat. I always like going for a walk in it, even though this is usually on my own.

But today I see something that I recognise – two corgis out with their owner. I recognise them because I searched for my local area on Flickr recently and found dozens of beautiful pictures of the park. And quite a lot of them had these very distinctive dogs in them. Whoever took the pictures is surely the owner of the dogs.

Whoever took the pictures also surely thinks that the park is lovely as well. I want to share my appreciation with him – to reach out and make contact with my neighbour instead of passing silently by like so many city dwellers. Isn’t this what the world wide web is about? Bringing together people with similar interests?

Looking back on it, I am not sure that the best way for one man to approach another in a park is with the line “Hello, I think I’ve seen your pictures on the internet”.

It really could have gone one of two ways:

1) “Hello, nice to meet you too. Yes, it is a lovely park, isn’t it? Very nice to find someone else who thinks the same. Perhaps now every time we see each other we can have a brief conversation along the lines of “Lovely day, isn’t it?” “Yes, roll on global warming!” That would be nice.”

2) “Hello, nice to meet you too. Yes, not many people subscribe to www.doingitupthebumdressedasanun.com. Very nice to find someone else who thinks the same. Perhaps we can go back to my place now and do it up the bum dressed as nuns. That would be nice.”

OK, it was 1). Maybe I needed to bring my own wimple.

I am becoming increasingly concerned about the situation in my local duck pond. One of the great things about being a freelancer is the ability to organise my time how I want. I genuinely work very hard, but I do like being able to go for a walk in the park when it suits me. I like to see the seasons change, and notice small differences in the plants and animals each day. And the duck pond situation is worrying me.

There are lots of mallard ducks that happily fly, swim, waddle and dive in the pond together. There is also one solitary goose that doesn’t seem to mix much with the ducks, preferring to just idly peck the grass on the edge of the pond and occasionally stand knee-deep in the water.

At first I thought that this goose was really cool. That because of his size and uniqueness he was king of the other birds, and they all respected him. But seeing this lone goose every day over the past couple of weeks I have developed a new theory. I now think that this goose is like the older kid at school who had no friends in his year, and had to hang out with kids a couple of years younger. And even those kids secretly, or sometimes openly, mocked and despised him, but just by virtue of his size and age they couldn’t shake him off. It is like The Ugly Duckling, but in reverse – Goosey No-Mates. It might make a good children’s story.

Perhaps the goose woke up one day to find that all the other geese had played a trick on him – they had left a note saying they had flown south for the winter, but didn’t tell him where. So the poor goose was left to hang around with the ducks, pretending that he preferred their company anyway, thanks for asking. Yesterday, I looked deep into the goose’s eyes, and just for a second we connected on a primal level and I saw the sadness in his soul. I was like St Francis of Assisi. I knew that I had discovered the truth, and I was not assuaged by the fact that he then did a big poo and waddled off.

That evening, my girlfriend came home from her proper job. Like the great boyfriend that I am I asked her how her day was. She told me about an Afghani woman in her class who had written about how she saw her family killed in front of her. About how she had to flee her homeland with nothing and try to settle in a strange new country. My girlfriend showed me the piece of writing. It was devastatingly sad, and was made even more poignant by the fact that this educated woman was writing in an unfamiliar script, so her letters were scrawled like a young child’s.

My girlfriend then asked me how my day was. I hesitated, and then decided to leave the whole anthropomorphised duck pond scenario for another time.

I see a cat on my way to the park. I work from home and have little human contact during the day, so I seem to have compensated by making friends with a lot of the cats in the area. I like cats, but can’t have one at my flat, so I always stop to stroke them on my way to the park/shops/library. My life is great. It is like being old without the incontinence issues.

I know which cats live where and which ones are friendly. This is one of the friendliest – a white/ginger/tabby mix who lives in one of the houses on the left, approximately halfway to the park. I stroke him and we have a little chat. The chat is quite one-sided, mainly about how shiny his coat is and how nice it is to be stroked under the chin, but it’s still better than a lot of conversations I had working in an office. I carry on to the park.

On my way back, I see my friend standing once again by the gatepost. I am very happy. Some days I don’t see any cats at all, so to see the same one twice is special.

I kneel down again, but the cat just runs away. Puzzled, I look up. A man is coming down the path. He is probably wondering why I am kneeling in front of him saying, “Come here, gorgeous”.

I go for a run in the park. A man stops me and asks for my help. It is important for the clarity of this story to point out that this man is (a) on crutches and (b) black. I would not normally point such things out being (a) not disablist and (b) not Ron Atkinson, but these facts are pertinent.

He says, “My dog has run off and I can't run after him. Will you fetch him please?”

He points to a large black dog that is already barely a speck on the other side of the football pitch. I don’t want to run after the dog. I am knackered and still have scars on my leg from where a dog bit me when I was 12.

“He doesn’t bite”, says the man, playing the best card that he has. I sigh, then pretend that it is because I am out of breath.

“What is your dog’s name?” I ask, remembering that dogs often come when called.

“Blackie.”

“Blackie?”

“Blackie.”

I run off after the dog. I do not want to shout "Oi, Blackie! Come here!" across the park in case a man of African or Afro-Caribbean descent thinks that I am picking a fight with him. I am not good at fighting. So I decide that I will just run after the dog and not call its name.

Whilst I am running I try to think of a set of circumstances that would lead to a black man owning a dog called Blackie. Perhaps he is reclaiming the word, like young African-Americans did in bands such as Niggaz With Attitude. But the man is middle-aged and this is leafy North-West London, not South Central LA.

I nearly catch up with the dog. The dog runs off again.

I decide that perhaps the dog was once owned by a white friend of his who, tired of being beaten up every time he called his dog in the park, gave the dog to his black friend. Perhaps this man only had one black friend and gave it to him by default, despite his obvious unsuitability for taking animals for walks. I am pleased with this explanation.

I nearly catch up with the dog. The dog runs off again.

As I chase after it I wonder, like I wonder about three times a week on average, if I am being filmed by hidden cameras. It would be a hilarious idea for a show. Even if the victim was too embarrassed to shout “Oi, Blackie!” in the most racially diverse area of the country you would still have some great footage of an out-of-breath man failing to catch a dog. That is always funny.

I nearly catch up with the dog. The dog runs off again.

This is actually quite good exercise. I usually find running dull, but I have probably done my entire distance by now without getting bored. Perhaps I should find a black person who is having problems walking their West Highland Terrier, Honky, and offer to chase it round the park for them on a regular basis.

Eventually, the dog tires of this game. I catch him and gasp “Stay”. He sits obediently, looking up at me. Perhaps I remind him of his old master. Then I remember that, unlike humans, dogs are colour-blind.

The dog’s owner hobbles over and thanks me. The hidden cameras remain hidden.